


Perdition

by uchiha_s



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Harlots-inspired, Historical AU, Implied onesided Theon/Sansa, Religious References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 18:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16749373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: Historical AU, Oneshot, 1700's London. For the Jonsa gift exchange.Sansa, the highest-paid harlot in Lord Baelish’s Eyrie, is determined to save young Alys from a fate worse than death, but sees no means before her—that is, until the new Justice Snow arrives in London.





	Perdition

**Author's Note:**

> For Sardoniyx for the Jonsa exchange. Note that this is inspired by a few different things. ALSO note that I am not remotely religious and was just toying with religious imagery, so if I got something totally wrong, I apologize. 
> 
> This was initially meant to be much longer but I sadly ran out of time and so had to abridge it. Maybe someday I'll write out the long version, as it was rather exciting :)
> 
> ***This was reposted because I realized I had posted an old version by accident that was missing some key dialogue.***

_For at the window of my house I have looked out through my lattice, and I have seen among the simple, I have perceived among the youths, **a young man lacking sense** , passing along the street near her corner, taking the road to her house in the twilight, in the evening, at the time of night and darkness. _

* * *

 “They sacrifice virgins?”

Jon turned to face Father Mormont, aghast. This man who had been a mentor, a father, who had been _everything_  to Jon since he had been little more than a boy _,_ laughed slightly, sadly, as he stared into the roaring fire. Cossetted by books and fine carpet and the wisdom of so many black-clad men before them, such horrors seemed impossible.

“It is enough to make a man want to give up,” Father Mormont conceded dryly. “For evil can never truly be eradicated, can it? One might estimate that men had passed such base, evil urges, but it seems even in these modern days we encounter primitive, inexplicable brutality.”

Outside, thunder crackled, illuminating Oxford in the late November rain. “But if there is any man up to the task set before us, it is you, Jon.”

A long moment of silence passed, for Jon weighed his words carefully, as he had been taught.

He turned away from Father Mormont to gaze out the window into the inky, frigid night, toward London, that city of filth and rot and beauty, that godless place—and yet, Jon knew that God could be found everywhere, anywhere, even in the most evil crevices of Hell. He set his jaw. “You will have to be careful, Jon,” Mormont continued heavily. “London is not like Oxford. The laws of men and God are not so treasured there, boy. It is as I said: evil can never be eradicated and you will find it in every nook and cranny in the city.” 

“I am no boy.”

“You are sweet and gentle as one, and you’ll be a boy to me until I die,” Father Mormont retorted. “I shudder to let you go to London, but then if I do not, am I any different than these men who rape and murder virgins for sport?”

“You could not keep me here if you tried,” Jon countered, and he heard Mormont laugh again, softly, sadly. “They rape and murder children. I did not study law to stay safe behind my books and stained glass—I studied the law so that I may exact justice, so that I may _protect_ children from such evil.”

Jon turned to face Father Mormont once more, and archly met his mentor's gaze. He had been waiting for so many years to finally put into practice all that he had learned; years of being cooped up with old books, learning of crueler, more bitter men skirting around justice would  _finally_ bear fruit. 

"I knew that from the very first time we spoke," Mormont said. 

Thunder rang out through the heavens. Jon’s throat was tight; Mormont looked away. “Look for Lord Stannis; he is the one who heard this rumor and sent the message to me, and he is the one who has appointed you. But do not trust him, Jon.”

The words surprised Jon. 

“Why should I not trust the man who told us of this heinous evil?” Jon demanded, approaching Mormont's chair. "If not him, then who should I trust?"

Mormont’s light eyes were rendered golden by the fire. 

“Trust no one, Jon.”

* * *

“…You haven't had a keeper in a long time…Alayne.” 

Baelish's voice was shining and sharp, yet soft—a knife's edge teasing her flesh.

_Keeper._

That dreaded word.

Sansa had her back to the man who had stolen her more than ten years ago, the man who had exchanged money to have her defiled at the age of thirteen, the man who held her by golden puppet strings—and gazed out the magnificent Palladian windows, her lovely features arranged into a mask.

The Eyrie, her place of work, the brothel she had called home for more than ten years, overlooked Hyde Park of London—the very last place one might expect to find a whorehouse. But Lord Petyr Baelish's brothel was no ordinary house of whores. There was no reek of sex upon crossing the threshold; no cries of release could be heard from the opulent drawing room in which they now stood. All was as staid and pure as a pianoforte lesson; yet what had been done to her, what she did every day and night, was little different from what was done to the girls in the common brothels. Oh, it smelled of fine perfumes and wore powdered wigs and spoke Latin, but in the end it was all the same.

No, she had not had a keeper in a very long time.

Sansa placed a pale hand on the windowsill, all too aware of Baelish behind her, his fine buckled shoes clicking softly against the polished floor as he approached her, until the air around her was suffused with mint, his signature scent, the scent she would forever associate with the night she had been taken. It still made her stomach clench; she could still feel the burning throb of losing her maidenhead, a thin sting that stretched out for weeks, leaving her wondering throughout those lonely lost weeks if she was dying. She thought of it every time she smelled mint.

"I have not had a keeper in a long while,” she agreed at last. "This was our arrangement." 

"Yes, it was." His voice was sibilant, and she felt him tug on one auburn curl, arranged just so at the nape of her neck. "And, as part of that arrangement, you will take Alys to Lord Bolton’s party this evening for her first outing. You will charm them all like you always do, and you will show Alys how to play cards, how to drink without getting drunk while seeming charmingly tipsy all the while, how to laugh at the jokes of men who are not funny, how to bewitch and beguile and spin those spells into gold.”

Alys was twelve.

Sansa felt a sickness in her throat, burning acidly like anger. She watched a fine, glossy carriage drawn by white horses—it had a golden rose as its crest; it was the Tyrells—pass through her view. Oh, to be Margaery Tyrell, she had once thought—and yet were their lives any different? Margaery Tyrell had no more freedom than Sansa did. 

Sometimes she imagined stealing Alys in the night and running off to America. They could steal what little of Sansa's gold she had managed to pilfer for herself; they could change their names and live as mother and daughter. She had always wanted a child, always wanted a family. But mostly she did not allow herself the luxury of getting lost in such daydreams. 

"She is too young. She won't know how to act," Sansa protested, though it was a weak rebuttal. Alys had spent the last six months being trained in decorum, in banter and wit, though the girl lacked the duplicitous and attention-seeking nature necessary for her to truly succeed in such ventures. 

She was straightforward, sweetly plain; she was honest.

She was a little girl.

She could almost be Sansa's daughter.

"Either Theon Greyjoy owns you, or you take Alys to Lord Bolton’s party."

Cool mint rushed along her neck. "So which shall it be, Alayne?"

There were no culls to be had from the party immediately; it was only to allow Alys to be seen, to build a buzz around her, to whet the appetites of the powdered, brocade-wearing men who swam in such noble, elite circles, who dealt in cards and diamonds and virgins.

It would not defile her, Sansa told herself.

Not yet.

She could almost be Sansa's daughter, but she wasn't.

Alys would be defiled later, as Sansa had: defiled by the highest bidder. Wax-sealed envelopes of gold, cut-crystal glasses of the finest port, and a heavy, sweating man thrice her age atop her… 

"Theon Greyjoy?" she queried, instead of accepting. She felt Baelish laugh; his hand was at her waist but she had so long practiced against the urge to cringe from his touch, yet it sickened her all the same.

"He is the highest bidder. I did not even announce that I was accepting bids for you, yet he has been presenting me with increasing bids nonetheless.“

"He's known for liking virgins," Sansa countered. "I am no virgin. This must be some jape."

“Perhaps not—but he's also known for loving beautiful women," Baelish shot back easily. He could count a man’s fortune just by a single dismissive glance at his wig. "And you are the most beautiful woman alive." 

"I did not know the Greyjoys were so well-off."

"The Kraken always seem to produce coin when there's a pretty cunny to be had," Baelish mused. "And he's bet a pretty penny for your pretty cunny."

His fingertips trailed over her spine, up the bumps, until they rested in the auburn curls at the nape of her neck. 

She had nowhere else to go, after all, now that she had been defiled. Just as Alys soon would be defiled. 

But if Theon Greyjoy owned her...

The party, she told herself, would not defile Alys. Not yet. And this would buy her time: time to plan, time to rescue the little girl. Theon Greyjoy owning her would not stop Alys' defilement, nor would it protect her in any way. If it were not Sansa who took Alys to Lord Bolton’s party tonight, it would be another woman of the Eyrie; protesting and refusing would help no one. 

"Does she have a gown?" Sansa finally asked. She felt lips graze the space between her neck and shoulder; that elegant curve that Baelish so prized. Her skin crawled; her stomach roiled.

Touch was a lie, and loving touch was a myth. She knew touch, knew it well.

No one would ever touch her for love.

“She does,” said Baelish, a curl of pleasure in his sibilant voice. “One just like yours, if you’ll wear the amethyst gown. It brings out your hair.”

“It will not bring out hers,” Sansa countered dispassionately, at last turning to face Baelish, a tug on her lock of hair as it slipped through his fingers. They were face to face now. She watched his swarthy eyes darken at the sight of the soft skin above her breasts, watched his lips curve. “Her hair is brown. This is meant to be her debut—but how can she debut if everyone is looking at me?” 

Sansa no longer found herself beautiful, but this was a part she would play, if it meant she could save this one little starry-eyed girl.

“My dear,” said Baelish, stepping closer and trailing gloved fingers over her breastbone thoughtfully, “if you were to wear tatters and Alys wear Margaery Tyrell’s most daring gown, their eyes would still be on you.” He dropped his hand. “And moreover, I have no other gowns for her. One would have to be made, and it is too late.”

“I was planning on visiting Madame Chataya today anyway,” Sansa said, sidestepping another of Baelish’s touches and passing him. “I will see if an appropriate gown can be loaned.”

Lord Baelish, she knew, longed to disparage his longtime rival, but he was not so foolish as to do it in front of Sansa. She glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see him bury a smirk. 

“As you wish. I will have the girl’s measurements written down.”

Sansa fled the drawing room and went to her own rooms to change. After ten years of serving in the Eyrie, Sansa had earned the most magnificent rooms in the house—short, of course, of the glamor of Baelish’s own rooms, though she had never seen them herself, and she had made certain of that.

The walls, paneled in the softest pale yellow silk, seemed to glow even with the draperies shut. And yet it had never, not even once, been a place of comfort or solace to her. She changed into her infamous amethyst dress—she wanted it too dusty to be possibly worn tonight, thus ruining Baelish's plan—and donned a cloak and then, with Alys’ measurements in her purse, left the Eyrie to walk across Hyde Park to Silk Street, where Madame Chataya held court.

It was a bustling morning, the air crisp with the promise of snow. She could almost taste it, almost could taste the north, her home, as she walked. She had not yet been able to bring herself to ask Alys of her family, of where she had come from. The Sansa from ten years ago—in fact the Sansa of even five years ago—would have done everything in her power to bond with the child. She would have become her confidante; they would have whispered together at night in their nightdresses, trading secrets and confessions, hopes and fears, beneath her lush goldenrod brocade canopy. They would have become best friends, because Sansa had never been able to bear to see anyone in pain.

But she was older, now, and she knew better. She knew that the more she tied herself to Alys, the more pain inevitably awaited them. There could be no true friendships in brothels, not when their very lives depended on them attracting a rich man enough to be taken on as his mistress—enough to turn a rich man's eyes and pockets from the other lovely women so very nearby.

Thus she would never befriend Alys—but she would do everything in her power to help her.

The trouble was that she had so little power, and she did not see how she could possibly help her. Her dreams of running off to America together were the folly of the child she had once been.

As Sansa approached Silk Street, the world around her changed: gone were the tidy shrubberies of the magnificent houses lining Hyde Park, the neat sound of finely-oiled carriages rolling over immaculate cobblestone, the proper hushed tones of well-bred gentlemen in the finest wigs. 

Silk Street, near the heart of London, was a bustling place that reeked of dung and smoked meat and sex; every third house here was a brothel and none of them with the genteel air that the Eyrie boasted. Her fine cloak and gown drew shrewd eyes as she walked, but Sansa was so well-known as being owned by Baelish that none dared touch her—and those that thought of it were held back by their betters. Sansa passed along the streets untouched, lost in a fog of fears, until she came to a small square near Madame Chataya's house.

There was a crowd gathered, and shouting, shrieks of outrage and catcalls and wolf whistles. Delicately pulling her cloak tighter round her shoulders, Sansa slipped into the crowd, through the throng, until she had a better view.

_Oh, no._

It was Mya again. Though she dressed as a lad with her dark hair shorn, meant to appeal to those old men who preferred little boys but did not prefer the possibility of awkward rumors, she was undeniably feminine even so, and Sansa would recognize those lithe limbs and fierce blue eyes anywhere.

Pinned in the dirt and filth by two men—the constable's men, known as thief-takers—she hollered and flailed like an angry goose, fighting against their grasp in futility. A cloth was crumpled just beyond her reach, and two stale loaves of bread had tumbled from it.

Mya had exhausted Madame Chataya's patience too many times, and was out on the streets once again, and here was the price of such prudence. 

"Call the Justice! Call Justice Snow!" a woman shrieked savagely in Sansa's ear. The crowd grew still more wild, and then, quite suddenly, there was silence.

The door of a small, plain house at the top of the square had been flung open, and Sansa now saw that this was the reason that the crowd had gathered _here_ , in this square, in particular; this was why Mya had been pinned here.

It was the new Justice's home. 

Sansa had heard tales of this man, Justice Jon Snow: a man of God, educated at Oxford and never seen in anything finer than the plainest black coat and cloak, a bible always gripped in his strong hand. He supposedly intended on reforming London—a laughable cause—and was equally impassive toward thieves, rapers, whores, and murderers. Those who defied the laws set by God deserved just punishment, no matter their reasoning for the crimes they had committed. 

Yet even so... there was a small flicker inside of her that longed to respect and admire this man.

She had heard, from whispers in her ear and fluttered words behind painted fans, that he was the only man of the law who was not corrupt, who could neither be bribed nor bought. 

When Sansa had heard that he was a young man in his prime, one month earlier upon his arrival at his position, she had assumed that she would at some point find his slender form (he was rumored to be quite lean and handsome, with the body of a thief and the mouth of a girl and the eyes of a god) darkening the doorstep of the Eyrie. After all, every man of affluence and influence and consequence in London did, at some point or another, and they had all spent time in her sheets, as long as they paid the right price.

But he hadn't. 

Not yet, at least.

Mya abruptly stopped writhing and shrieking, and fell still, as her wide blue eyes took in the man that had cast silence like a spell over the crowd.

He ought to have been unremarkable: he was of decent but not proud height, and slim—perhaps slender; the rumors of his body had been true, then—beneath his plain black coat and cloak. He wore a dark tri-cornered hat, unfashionable but striking, that cast a shadow over his eyes, but there was enough light to tell that he had been scarred—more than once—on his brow. His chilling grey gaze held no friendliness or empathy, only cool, dispassionate judgment. 

And yet—

Across the crowd his eyes so briefly met hers, then flicked away just as fast. Her skin prickled.

The eyes of a god indeed.

His eyes were like stone; he had seen everything, had looked upon the follies of London—the perfume and the filth, the sky-high wigs and the shit smeared in the streets, the girls' laughter and the whores' screeches—and had been unmoved, seeing only what needed to be fixed.

She had never seen eyes like his.

She had never seen a man be so unmoved by her before.

She had never seen a man so untempted by her before.

It did not matter, she told herself, as this lovely, terrible man descended the steps slowly. He had no bible in his strong hand but she thought it must never be far from his reach. His jaw was set; he looked upon Mya with neither disgust nor sadness but with a detached pity.

"The whore stole my bread!" shrieked a fat man now, his face shining and ruddy, as he peeled off from the crowd, pointing a fat, shaking finger at Mya. Sansa's heart shuddered in her throat, and her blood pounded in her ears. "She deserves a whipping—"

"—Take her to the jail of the Old Bailey. She deserves a fair trial," said Justice Snow dispassionately, standing before Mya, looking down at her. The crowd booed; Justice Snow turned to face the crowd. “She will be tried on the morrow; please busy yourselves with your work. This is no spectacle.”

And then he turned from Mya, and passed her by, striding toward the courthouse with god-given purpose, and the mob followed behind, the thief-takers dragging Mya by her slim shoulders. Thieves alone might lose a hand or an ear; Mya, being a whore—a whore for strange men, no less—would pay far, far more for those two stale loaves of bread.

Or, perhaps, Sansa thought with a flicker of hope, she might not.

_This is no spectacle._

She had never seen a man of the Justices so….honest. So fair. So unmoved by her, so unmoved by the crowd’s calls and whistles and shouts.

He was no Roose Bolton, the Justice before him, who had never given trials and whose sympathy barely extended to his own foul son, Ramsay Bolton, who ran amok through the nobility and whose party she would attend tonight with Alys—the women of the Eyrie had learned well to avoid that strange man. Trials alone were unheard of but the concept of a fair trial seemed to baffle and confuse the mob that followed Mya Stone to the Old Bailey.

Sansa turned from the square and went on to Madame Chataya’s, on the hunt for a dress that might make Alys sufficiently forgettable, but she could not get Justice Snow from her mind, and she despised herself for it. She had never been a fool over a man before. So absorbed was she in her heart’s struggles that she didn’t spot the slender, dark man following her down the alleyway outside of Madame Chataya’s.

“Sansa.”

Lord Theon Greyjoy would never rest. A hand closed over her arm, and Sansa yanked herself from his grip.

“Lord Greyjoy,” she said at last, turning to face him in the alleyway.

Theon Greyjoy knew who she had once been, and that alone was enough to make her avoid him—there was too much pain, too much shame, there—but the fact that he so desperately sought to own her only made it all the more painful for both of them. He was clad in the finest of silk coats, as always, and the finest hat, but he looked weary, aged; he looked like a man in pain. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“Sansa,” he tried again, “ _please._ ”

“You may consult Lord Baelish for matters pertaining to the status of my keeper,” she said coldly, and she turned from him, trembling.

Behind her, he shouted:

“You’re in danger, Sansa—I can help you. _Please._ ”

She did not reply.

For whatever danger she was in, she knew that Theon Greyjoy could not save her from it, and that she would be beholden to him forever. 

* * *

“Lord Ramsay Bolton’s party?” 

Head Justice Thorne was smirking as they left the jail, where the young girl, Mya Stone—she looked too young to be on the streets; she did not look the twenty-two years she said she had—was left in a cell to bawl and protest. It seemed unwise to Jon to leave the young woman in the same cell as the rapers and murderers that had been apprehended in the night, but when he had pointed this out, Justice Thorne had retorted that the cells were well-guarded to stop any further crimes from being committed. The man guarding the cell in which Mya had been thrown was three heads taller than Jon and thrice as thick, and the look he gave Jon was little less than a leer.

“Yes, Snow, Lord Bolton’s party. The girl would have earned enough to buy herself ten loaves there tonight, if she had kept her sticky, filthy fingers to herself today,” Thorne continued.

They left the jail and came out into the washed daylight of the London street. Carriages and horses, servants and children, men in fine glossy tri-cornered hats and women in fur-trimmed cloaks swept past. London, after the peace of Oxford, was overwhelming, but beneath its filth, this evil city glimmered like a many-faceted jewel, or a sword of the finest steel merely in need of polishing and whetting.

London could be saved.

Those virgins could be saved.

“Why Lord Bolton’s party?” Jon pressed as he fell into step beside Thorne. As they walked, men in fine brocade coats nodded and bowed to the be-wigged Thorne—but no one else met their eyes.

Was a Justice not a man of the people, a representation of the ideals set out by God?

He could taste the hatred for Thorne in the back of his throat like blood—and their hatred extended to him, like the burn of a too-hot fire nearing his skin. He did not understand it.

Why should the people so despise the beacons of law and order?

“A place that proper men do not belong, Snow,” Thorne retorted, though he was smirking as though privately enjoying a joke at Jon’s expense. Jon still did not know what to think of this man. Upon coming to London he had thought he might at last be among his peers—men who would rather save society than hide from it—and though Thorne seemed to share his ideals, there was something strange about the man.

 _Trust no one, Jon,_ Father Mormont had warned him. He had descended into the snakepit, into a place where some shadowy ring of noblemen bought and sold and raped and killed children for their own fun. It was a system, an evil system: for virgins needed procuring, for they needed a quiet, safe place to rape and kill their virgins. It was not merely the men in this ring who so deserved hell but all of the many people who had to be supporting them.

“I don’t understand,” Jon pressed. He tried not to think of how hollowed the girl’s cheeks had been, how her desperate tears had streaked paths of clean down her filthy cheeks, how wildly she had looked upon the cast-aside loaves of bread even as the thief-takers had pinned her trembling form to the dirt.

Stealing was a crime; yet was it not also a crime that this young woman should be so hungry that it did not matter to her whether she was thrown in jail?

“You would not, nor do I,” Thorne admitted. They came to the front door of the Old Bailey, not far from the jail, and Thorne rounded on Jon now as they stood in the doorway. “Lord Bolton’s parties are filthy and sinful, where whores and gamblers gather to lure good men down the path of sin.”

“How does the son of a former Justice hold such parties?” Jon demanded, and yet his heart quickened. Had he found the snakepit? “Why do we not ban such illegal activities?”

Virgins would be expensive. He at least knew this much. Only the elite, only the nobility, would be able to afford them for sport.

Thorne threw his head back and laughed at Jon.

“I do admire your passion,” he mused as Jon felt his skin flush. “Such sensitivity. You are welcome to try, _Lady_ Snow.”

And he turned from Jon and fled into the safety of the courthouse. Though they were not under attack, though Thorne had hardly hurried, Jon sensed his fear of the people like a foul, lingering stench.

It seemed he would be attending the first party of his life tonight.

* * *

“Why do _I_ not get a lovely dress, too, Alayne, just like yours? Lord Baelish said I would get one just like yours.”

Alys stood before the long gilded mirror in Sansa’s rooms, being dressed by the maids. Sansa perched on the bed, observing the transformation. Powder and blush had been piled on Alys’ soft, smooth cheeks, absurd pink pigment painted upon her unkissed lips. The effect was almost perfect.

The dress was ghastly: orange with blue velvet trim, it clashed with the pink silk bird adorning the stiff wig that Alys now wore, which was slightly askew. She was unaccustomed to wearing wigs and kept scratching at it, a girlish and childish movement, that slowly pushed it off-center.

She looked older, and she looked _cheap,_ as Sansa had intended. A half-eaten apple plucked from the gutter. Sansa, with Chataya’s help, had done her best to mask Alys’ virginal appeal, but there was still something in the narrowness of her waist and the softness of her neck that betrayed her youth—that betrayed her virginity.

“More jewels. The rubies,” Sansa directed. The maid, Jeyne, looked back at Sansa questioningly.

“Ma’am, it does not match…“

“Miss Jeyne, you are an uneducated maid who has never possessed so much as a scrap of silk; I am known throughout London for my taste,” Sansa countered coolly, though it broke her heart. She longed to befriend Jeyne; she longed to have a friend at all. “Men come from all over England and pay more gold than you have ever seen in your life for a single hour with me—do you _really_ imagine you know more about how to dress our newest blossom than I?” 

It was better this way.

It had to be.

She had to help Alys.

Jeyne crumpled slightly, defeated.

“Ma’am,” she agreed quietly, arranging an absurd necklace of rubies upon Alys’ neck. 

“Oh, heavens. Th-they’re so pretty,” Alys whispered, fingering the bloody gems. Even little Alys knew that what she wore was worth more gold than she had ever dreamed of—she truly was a child, delighted by the pretty treasures piled upon her, unconcerned by whether men might be enchanted by them, enchanted by how they looked upon her.

“You look lovely,” Sansa told her, moving to stand behind Alys and dismissing Jeyne, who faded from Sansa’s rooms.

In the mirror, Sansa watched Alys’ eyes fill with tears.

“D-do you think they’ll find me pretty? The men, I mean.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak but Alys cut in, like a fountain suddenly overflowing. “Because Lord Baelish told me I should aim for Lord Bolton,” she confessed hastily, whirling around, absurd skirts swirling, to clutch at Sansa. “D’you think he’ll like me? I won’t be too young for him, right? Too…childish?”

Cold fingers of horror trailed down Sansa’s spine.

“Lord Bolton?” she asked faintly, and Alys, large doe-like eyes still filled with tears, nodded, only gripping her more tightly in her small, pale hands.

“Yes, he’s one of the richest men in London—no, in _England!_ Lord Baelish said if he were to become my keeper I would never have to serve another man again, that I could have anything that I wanted, that I could even—after a time—go _home.”_ Tears streamed down Alys’ cheeks, ruining her powder. 

Lord Bolton.

Lord Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa swallowed, made a weak attempt at smiling. She could feed Alys whatever lies occurred to her but when they attended this party tonight her words would be dashed, for Lord Bolton’s estate was infamous, incomparable.

And she knew a thing or two about Lord Ramsay Bolton.

* * *

Jon had walked through Hyde Park; by the time he reached Dread Court his cheeks were stinging with cold and his fingers, the tips so foolishly exposed by his gloves, were numb. He walked along a misty avenue leading away from the Park; lichen-covered trees creaked in the light wind but beyond their whines he heard the soft melody of violins and cellos. In the distance, the mist turned gold, and then Dread Court in all its golden glamor loomed before him, wreathed in carriages each more lovely and intricately wrought than the one before it. 

And there he stood, in his finest black coat, realizing quite suddenly that he was utterly, utterly out of his depth. Ladies with silvery white wigs floated out of their carriages; French and English and languages he would never know floated and mingled too like the mist. He was surrounded by more finery than he had ever seen in his life.  

This hardly looked like the place where a girl like Mya might be let in. This hardly looked like the place where he might find his snakepit. Yet he could not forget the chilling looks upon Head Justice Thorne; he could not forget what Thorne had said before fleeing into the Old Bailey. He could not forget what he had come to London for in the first place.

He squared his shoulders. 

London, he reminded himself, needed him. Those children needed him.

He alighted the marble steps and doffed his hat as he entered a darkly golden world. The music was louder as he stepped inside and he was nearly pushed to the side by a laughing woman in yellow silk and a wig adorned with bright gold feathers that winked and fluttered in her hair. Such excess—it was not God’s way but these were not the true criminals... As Jon cast his gaze around the room in search of some sign of sin he did not glimpse it anywhere, yet it settled into his pores and made him long to bathe. 

 “Justice Snow.”

A small, sprightly man in lavender silk with a pointed beard and swarthy eyes was by the door, clutching a cut-crystal glass of port and loosely holding upright a heavily-powdered woman. His eyes glimmered as they roved over Jon.  

“Forgive me—“ Jon began but was cut off by more guests pushing their way into the crowded foyer, which already felt overhumid with too many people and too many perfumes. He was slammed into the elfin man and the port sloshed out of the glass and down the woman’s dress, and though she let out a shriek of outrage the man remained collected and unmoved by the disturbance. “—I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Jon never forgot a face. As he righted himself, he met the man’s eyes once more, and a chill ran down his spine though he could not say why. The man seemed perfectly respectable—over-decorated perhaps but, then, Jon thought they all were. 

“Petyr Baelish.” The man gave a funny little bow that made Jon feel silly, but he put it out of his mind—there was something about that name that tugged at his memory. What was it? “I hear you are Lord Justice Bolton’s replacement. Such shoes you must fill—as you can see, he has left quite the legacy.” Baelish’s voice was as cool as the fragrance of mint that clouded the air around him. 

“Carrying out the law requires no more gold than I have,” Jon said coldly. He already disliked this man. 

“I must admit, I am surprised to see a man such as yourself here,” Baelish continued, and he detached himself from the woman absently and took Jon by the arm. “Come, drink with me. You’ll have met Lord Justice Bolton’s son, of course—no need to introduce you, if that is the case.” 

“I haven’t.” It would have been more prudent to lie, he supposed, but he would not lie. Jon allowed Baelish to lead him through a sea of silk and brocade and perfume; painted birds and rubies the size of quail eggs, as he searched the room.  

What was he even looking for? 

“Oh? Well, not everyone here was _strictly_ on the guest list, so you’re in excellent company,” Baelish reassured him as they passed into a much smaller, more dimly-lit room that still seemed yet more crowded. Groups of bejeweled women and painted men gathered round low tables, laying cards and trinkets upon the polished mahogany surfaces.

“Lord Baelish, what is it you do in London?” Jon asked. He attempted to refuse the crystal glass of port that was pushed into his hand, but Baelish’s grip was surprisingly strong. The odd man smiled at him. 

“Word of advice, Justice Snow,” he began in a low voice, and cool fingers slipped something around Jon’s neck. Jon realized it was a deep crimson silk ascot. “Best not discuss occupation at a party like this. It’s ever such a bore. Oh, and,” he continued, adjusting the silk, “I would not go about announcing I were the new Justice, if I were you.” 

He patted Jon’s chest in a way that made Jon’s skin crawl, and leaned in. “One final note: the Justices have a long-standing tradition with the Eyrie. When you decide to abandon your books and your bible for more carnal pleasures, we will welcome you.” 

And then like a snake in the grass, the man slipped off, leaving Jon standing there with a glass of port that he would never _ever_ drink and a red silk ascot that was likely finer than anything he had ever owned.  

“Ignore Baelish. He’s a crooked little man but he’s harmless. He likes to have his fun.”  

A tall man came up to Jon, clad in the simplest red coat that seemed to bleed the color from his peculiarly light blue eyes. His lips were full—if they had not been so plush he might have been a handsome man, Jon supposed, though he was hardly an expert on such matters. “You must be Justice Snow. Lord Reek.”  

He had the firm, brisk handshake of a scholar. “Here, let me relieve you of _that_. I disposed of mine already,” said Reek distastefully, taking the glass of port from Jon. 

“Are you friend of Lord Bolton?” Jon asked as Reek stepped closer. Reek’s lips twisted into a wry grin. 

“Oh, I make my appearances when I must—per my father’s wishes—but I can’t say this is the sort of crowd with which I frequently consort.” Reek cast a disgusted hand at the dimly lit room around them, then met Jon’s eyes directly. “You would never imagine that the only son of a Lord Justice would throw such wild parties but Ramsay never could be tamed, I’m afraid.” 

“Where is Ramsay Bolton?” 

Reek peered around the room. 

“I don’t see anyone who could be him… Odd. The word is that he never makes appearances at these parties except to a very select few—only the cream of the crop—and as I am hardly nobility, he has not revealed himself to me just yet.” 

They stood in silence, surveying the room around them for a moment, until across the room Jon saw a figure that made him freeze. 

Gleaming auburn hair burned like firelight; but it was not her beauty that stopped him though that alone was remarkable. 

It was that she was staring at him, with blue eyes that looked like the sea. She was staring at him the way she had stared at him today, for he was certain that it was the same woman who had so frozen him today, in the square. She had been haunting him all day though he had stubbornly pushed her from his thoughts.

“Ah, so you’ve already seen Alayne Stone,” Reek noted Jon’s gaze. “One of Baelish’s prized possessions—in fact, perhaps _the_ most prized possession.” He nodded in her direction, as she turned her gaze from Jon.

“You cannot possess a human being,” Jon retorted, and Reek laughed, a surprising sound, and slung an arm around Jon’s shoulders.

“Oh, you and _I_ cannot, of course.” He leaned in close and whispered in Jon’s ear, his breath tickling Jon’s skin, “but for the right price, men like _him_ can possess Alayne Stone however which way they like.” 

“Him?”

Jon’s heartbeat quickened as he followed Reek’s line of sight to a slender, dark-haired, smiling man who was gazing at Alayne Stone’s neck. In spite of his smile, Jon could not help but note that the man hardly looked happy.

“Lord Greyjoy. Son of the late Lord Balon,” Reek explained in a low, thrilling voice. “You didn’t hear it from me but the word is,” he continued, only moving closer to Jon, “that he buys a virgin a week from Baelish for defiling…and they’re never seen again.”

This was it.

This was the darkness, this was the rot, spreading through London. Lord Theon Greyjoy’s gaze lingered on the matchless Alayne Stone like he was in pain, but there was little doubt in Jon’s mind that Alayne—with such a silver tongue and clever eyes—had not been a virgin for a very long time. He could not help but think that this Reek had got something wrong: he could not help but think that Lord Greyjoy did not care for virgins at all. 

Here, he supposed, was where Mya ought to have made her loaves of bread.

He should have been sickened but he found himself only saddened, for reasons he could not explain.

And then Alayne Stone was looking at him again and his blood boiled. Desire was a fickle thing, desire was a thing of rot, desire was the snake in the garden—he did not need desire, did not miss it, but he could not get the thought out of his mind that the juice of the apple that Eve bit into must have run down her chin, must have tasted like _heaven,_ must have tasted like Alayne Stone—

“I’ve heard of this …proclivity,” Jon admitted to Reek. He looked upon the man, tore his eyes from Alayne Stone—he did not need desire; he did _not_ —and fixed his mind and gaze upon Reek. “It was why I was brought to London.”

Reek smiled. Jon thought of worms, writhing in the dirt, and thought that he was looking upon yet another serpent though he was not certain how he knew. 

“You did not hear it from me,” Reek reiterated slowly, darkly, “but Lord Greyjoy is your man.”

Jon sensed that he was about to be drawn into a trap of his own making. 

* * *

Justice Snow was standing with Ramsay Bolton; speaking intimately as though they were friends.

Her heart was breaking.

Her heart was breaking and Theon Greyjoy was looking at her and Ramsay Bolton was looking at Alys and Justice Snow was looking at her. She wished she could tear her eyes from his but he was looking at her almost feverishly; his gaze was penetrating. He was trying to understand something—trying to understand her.

_This is no spectacle._

This might be her one chance to save Alys from Lord Ramsay Bolton—but how could she ever approach Justice Snow with Ramsay so near?

Alys was occupied by Theon Greyjoy, so Sansa relinquished her hold on their table, and tossed her hair, and approached the two men: a snake and a god. Her stomach clenched as she felt Ramsay Bolton’s gaze feast upon her décolleté.

“Lord Bolton,” she greeted, as she reached the two men. Justice Snow was defiantly meeting her eyes, but as she spoke she saw something chilling in his dark grey eyes. 

“Bolton, is it?” he said quietly, turning to Lord Ramsay. “I must have misheard you. You just told me your name was Reek.” 

Ramsay was not bothered; rather, he flashed a smile at Justice Snow. 

“You didn’t hear it from me,” he repeated cryptically, then turned to Sansa. Her skin crawled and her most secret yet most used place throbbed not with desire but with violence. 

He would _never_ have Alys.

He was smiling at her. “Why Miss Stone, you look more lovely every time I see you.” His pale blue eyes flicked to Alys behind her. “Your new blossom is lucky to stand within your radiance.”

She watched Justice Snow's eyes flick to Alys. Those eyes did not look like they missed much; they narrowed as they perceived Alys. 

“Cards, Lord Bolton? Justice Snow?” Sansa countered, her voice cool though her heart was pounding, but Justice Snow cut in suddenly.

“Miss…Stone,” he began, almost uncertain, “I’ve been told you do more than play cards, for the right price.”

There was no subtlety, no shyness, to his words, and she watched Ramsay’s brows arch in something like delight even as her own heart sank. She had been wrong, she had misjudged; she had thought, for one shining moment, that she had found her means of saving Alys, but of course, as always she had been a fool— 

“All exchanges are arranged by Lord Baelish,” she told him sweetly nonetheless; she never dropped her mask. Justice Snow glanced at Baelish, then back at her. 

“I prefer discretion,” he insisted. “I’ve been told that any man can possess you for the right price. ...I am also told that your price is more than two loaves' of bread..."

His coat was perhaps his finest one; yet it betrayed his lack of wealth. He could never have afforded her and any fool could see that. Two loaves of bread... He was speaking to her in secret; his face was impenetrable but his eyes were pulling her in.

"More than the cost of two loaves of bread, yes," she agreed softly. 

Her heart lifted, once more, with hope. She watched him turn to Ramsay. “Are there not places we might find some privacy, Lord Bolton?”

Ramsay’s eyes glittered. 

“Follow me,” he said, and they followed him as he wove through the room, until he reached a dark, narrow staircase behind the hearth. “Just up here. After you, Justice Snow. I have the utmost respect for Justices—as, now you know, my father was once a Justice.”

Justice Snow alighted the steps, his dark cloak flapping round his slender form, making her think of crows—but Ramsay’s grip closed round her arm.

In the darkness and cold silence, he whispered in her ear:

“Breathe a word to Snow and I’ll skin the girl alive.”

* * *

Jon pushed open the door to a private room; it was, upon entering, clearly a library albeit an unused one. It was dark, and the dim light from the moon paneled the room in silver. The door clicked shut behind Alayne Stone, and then they were alone. Jon turned to her. She looked like she was made of moonlight. He did not need desire, he told himself. 

"Miss Stone," he began, but she shook her head as she attempted to lock the door, though the lock had been dismantled. 

"My name is Sansa," she breathed, turning back to him. 

"Sansa," he whispered, relishing the name on his tongue. He did not need desire, he did not need it at all. He did not crave a woman's touch, not even that of this impossibly lovely woman. He watched her lovely mouth tremble. 

"What will you do to Mya?" she asked suddenly. Jon stepped back, gutted by the memory of the filthy girl's hungry eyes as she clawed at the stale bread. He had never been hungry, save for fasting days, save for by his own volition. Hunger was the very worst pain, hunger, he knew, drove people to unimaginable crimes. Perhaps Eve had only been hungry. 

Sansa's eyes peeled him apart. 

_What will you do to Mya?_

She was accustomed to a world in which men did horrible things to women, and it was breaking his heart.

"She'll get a trial." Even as he spoke he knew the words were worthless. "She will be treated as a thief," he added, watching her eyes blur with tears, "and nothing more. She was caught stealing, and it is a crime. The right and appropriate punishment is to spend a night in the jail." Even still he sensed his words were not enough; he watched her look downward, her lovely hair pooling over her neck and in her collarbone, a single lock dipping down between her breasts. He did not need desire. 

"She stole because she was hungry, and had no place to go," she countered. 

"God is forgiving," Jon said, and she looked away. 

"God is indifferent," she said. 

They stood in the silence, the noise and chaos of the party beneath them. Jon wished he could have touched her, but whatever might he touch her for? Whatever could it mean to her? "Where," she began quietly, "was your god when I was taken by Lord Bolton, at the age of thirteen, still a child? Where was your god when Mya was stolen from her own bed and raped? Where is your god now, now that Ramsay Bolton preys on Alys, the child with me?" 

She fixed her eyes on him once more. 

"I do not know," he admitted, and he watched those lovely eyes widen so slightly in surprise. "I'm a man of the law before I'm a man of the faith. But the law can protect you, and the law can protect Alys—"

"—It cannot. Men like Ramsay Bolton are above the law." She was not looking at him anymore. "But if there is anyone who has the power to change things, it's you." 

"Help me, then. Let's change things together."

* * *

His voice was so soft. Sansa looked back to this man, expecting to see him advancing upon her, but he held back, gazing at her with an intensity she had never known. "Is Bolton the leader of this...ring?" he whispered. 

"Ring?"

"I'm told there is a ring of men who like to steal young girls and commit evil acts. That is why I'm here tonight." His face darkened as Sansa nodded. "You think the girl—Alys—is in danger from Ramsay Bolton? Do you think she is in danger from Theon Greyjoy?" 

"Yes, she is, but not Lord Greyjoy; that is merely a rumor that has been spread to distract from the _true_ members of this ring. Baelish is putting her right in Bolton's path." She paced, as she heard him turn away from her. The silence seemed to throb in time with her heart. "Do you truly mean to help?"

His back was to her but he turned once more, back to her, and nodded, once. 

"I do." She watched his hand tremble, watched him fist it. "What was done to you, Sansa, was evil. I mean to stop that evil." 

Their eyes met once more and tears were slipping down her cheeks—and then he was stepping closer, brows knit together, and then he was faltering. "Forgive me, I did not—"

"—There is nothing to forgive," she whispered, but then they heard heavy footfalls, and the turning of a knob, and Sansa threw herself toward Justice Snow just as the door opened. 

Her fingers dug into the rough wool of his coat as she pulled him against her; their lips met as they staggered together, back against the wall, so that she was pinning him in place. His kiss was not uncertain as she had imagined it might be; his hands slid to her hips and pulled her closer as she heard, unmistakably, Baelish's soft laugh, and then the soft  _click_ of the door shutting once more. 

They broke apart, breathless in the silence. Justice Snow's hair was wild and her heart was pounding, and there was something warm and tickling and gentle building within her as she stumbled backward, touching her lips. 

"I suppose it is my turn to ask for forgiveness," she mused, her voice barely above a whisper. Justice Snow raked a hand through his hair and turned away. 

"Then it is my turn to tell you that there is nothing to forgive," he said, though his voice was rough. 

"I suppose this must be strange for you, to be making plans with a harlot." 

For a time he did not speak. She watched him run his fingertips along the edge of the windowpane. 

"It is far stranger to me," he began quietly, "that little girls should be taken from their homes for such evil acts." 

Now she could not speak, could not voice the feelings welling up within her like tears, like hope, like a sunburst. 

"Come to the Eyrie, tomorrow night," she said instead of any of the things she wanted to say: mainly,  _thank you, thank you, thank you._ "You can pretend to be my cull for the night, and we will make plans." 

She had a flash, then, of a boat bound for America...with Alys on one side of her, and Justice Snow on the other. 

Could it be made real...?

He faced her once more, drenched in moonlight, and her heartbeat quickened, her lips throbbing in time with her blood. His eyes looked nearly black, and for a moment she held her breath—what if he kissed her again, or what if she kissed him again, dug her fingers into his coat and kissed his soft lips once more; she thought she might drown in his eyes— 

"I'll come," he promised. And she sensed their time was ending, sensed that Alys was alone and in danger, but—

"—Wait," she breathed, and she stepped forward slowly, watching his eyes widen as she touched his cheek, traced one of his scars with her fingertip. His lashes were soft like his mouth but his jaw was hard, and the scruff beneath her fingertips scratched at her soft flesh. 

She just wanted to be touched by a kind man just  _once_. 

She pressed her lips to his once more, softer this time, felt a gentle hand upon the back of her head as their lips brushed, and then, abruptly, he pulled away, breathless and flushed. 

"No," he said. "Not like this." 

"Then how?" 

"When you are free and Alys is safe," he said softly. 

He was promising her something. 

"Does it not disgust you that I am used, that I am no maiden?" she pressed, searching his eyes for some sign of revulsion or disgust. If he dared show any sign, then she would—

"—It disgusts me that you have been used, that you have had so much taken away from you," he said at once, and she would not allow herself to cry. Not here, not yet. Not in this house of horrors. 

* * *

Sansa left that room before him, for he needed a moment to collect himself. In the cool darkness, Jon let out a shaking breath, and pushed back his hair. He had not been kissed in so long, and never like that; never by a woman who had so seen his soul. 

After a time, he fled the little library, and reentered the chaos of the party.  _Bolton. Greyjoy. Baelish._ He slipped into that dimly-lit room where the whores and noblemen played games and drank, watched in agony as a man's hand lingered upon Sansa's waist, watched the little girl beside her so clumsily attempt to charm and bewitch the powdered men around them as Sansa so effortlessly did. He watched those men's eyes linger upon the little girl hungrily, vulture-like and beady, salivating like dogs, coiling and preparing to strike like so many serpents. 

And as he passed by Sansa's table, their eyes met, and a rush of desire rippled up his spine. He felt the eyes of men lingering on him: Bolton, Greyjoy, and Baelish... He felt their eyes slide from him to Sansa but never to little Alys, and his stomach clenched. 

It was not Alys, he reflected, who was in the greatest danger. It was Sansa. 

His lips thrummed and his heart ached but he told himself that he did not need desire; desire was the death of duty and the death of law and he knew, in this den of sin, that if Sansa had asked him to come with her into the night, to forget his laws and his books and his bible, he would have gone willingly. Perhaps Eve had only been running from the serpent; perhaps Eve had only been scared. 

And as he set into the night, alone, leaving behind that den of sin and bracing himself for the wars to come, he knew what he would do first. 

He would free Mya; he would save her first. And then he would set about bringing down this ring of serpents, with Sansa's help. 


End file.
